


An Unexpected Consequence

by seashadows



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Diplomacy, Drinking, Gimli is young but of age, Gloin needs to drink more after this, M/M, Poor Glóin, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: There is not enough wine in the world for Glóin to unsee what he sees when a diplomatic visit from the Woodland Realm goes a little too well.





	

“’Adad! Do I have to?” 

“Aye, you have to.” Glóin crossed his arms over his chest, looking down his nose at his son – it was difficult now that they were the same height, but he made do. _Ach, let a lad reach seventy-five and suddenly he thinks he knows everything_. Gimli hadn’t even been this bad when he was a spotty sixty-five, newly come back to his home. “It won’t be so difficult.” 

Gimli crossed his arms right back at him and glared. It was, Glóin had to admit, formidable. “I don’t want to greet the Elves,” he said. “That Legolas called me a _goblin mutant_ , Da! How do I know I won’t just want to give him a punch in the stones when I see him?” 

“If I refrained from punching his father, you’ll refrain from punching the prince,” Glóin told him. “Now go get into your robes.” 

Gimli stomped off with a growl that Glóin was glad he couldn’t interpret, and with that done, he went to his own chambers to dress for the greeting. Gimli wasn’t wrong about the Elves; at least Dáin was coming in his capacity as Lord of the Iron Hills and would make this diplomatic ridiculousness a bit more palatable. “ _Kurdel_ ,” he greeted Sima, who was seated at the dressing table, applying her kohl. Otherwise she was dressed, and she looked resplendent with white sapphires in her rich red beard. “I’ve gotten Gimli to do as his bloody king bade him.” 

“That took long enough,” Sima answered, squinting at the looking-glass. “I’ll be glad when this rebellion of his is over and done with.” She finished up the last of the application and stood. “How do I look?” 

“Beautiful,” said Glóin. He went to her and folded her into his arms, then eagerly accepted the kiss she offered. Tonight, he suspected, would involve a bit of fun for them after the guests had dispersed. “ _M’imnu Durin_ , I’ll be late if we don’t stop!” 

Sima stepped away from him and tossed her hair with a grin. “Then get to it, me love. Put on your robes and let’s make the Line of Durin proud.” 

Gimli was ready, albeit sulky, by the time Glóin had finished dressing. His son’s robes were a deep purplish-blue that matched his own and Sima’s, close to Thorin’s own colors but – in his opinion – even lovelier. Where Glóin and Sima’s clothing had gold embroidery down the front, Gimli’s was copper; it matched the torch-lit highlights in his beard and his dangling earrings. “You look stately,” Glóin told him as they gathered in the anteroom. 

“I’d best,” said Gimli, taking a deep breath and letting it out for a long time. “All right. Time to show those Elves what sorts o’ Dwarves we are in Erebor.” 

“Then let’s get to it,” said Glóin, twiddling the points of his mustache. “Time enough for you to show what you’ve learned, eh?” 

Their timing couldn’t have been better. The Elves were just coming through the great stone doorway to the throne room as their family arrived. Thorin sat on the throne in his own formal robes and crown, with the Royal Consort (“Bilbo, Valar all damn it! I’m not a royal anything!”) standing at his side in a shoeless version of the same. His was warmer in color, deep brown and gold velvet, and he’d insisted on a shorter cape on the grounds that otherwise he’d go tripping all over it. Glóin remembered that row very well; Dori didn’t take kindly to unsolicited input into his designs. 

At any rate, Thorin’s chin was up and Bilbo’s hand rested on his, and Glóin felt slightly more confident as he watched Gimli get into his assigned position without complaint. Another deep breath, and then Gimli spoke. “Welcome, King Thranduil and Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” His voice boomed through the throne room, even young as he was. “I greet ye on behalf of King Thorin of Erebor, son of Thrain, son of Thrór.” No pauses, no wavering; his voice was as solid as oak. “I am Gimli, son of Glóin.” 

His chest filled with warm pride, and out of the corner of his eye, Glóin watched a smile grow on Sima’s face. He caught her attention and motioned in hurried Iglishmek, _I’m proud of him, too_. 

The rest of the formal greeting went off as planned, and Glóin relaxed. Not that he’d been nervous, really, but this was Gimli’s first time really interacting with Elvish royalty, and he’d done it so finely…well, perhaps he could let go of any leftover doubt about the lad. 

Then it was over, and they had only a short time to wait before their meal would be ready. Dáin pulled him into a hearty discussion of what sorts of stew they might be serving at the feast (something which Glóin had been dying to discuss with _somebody_ \- it was welcome, all right), and somewhere in all that, he forgot to think about Elves at all. 

If he’d been paying attention instead of eating mushroom soup and continuing his conversation with Dáin about _why_ exactly mica was better than talc, maybe he would’ve caught more than one or two of the odd glances and murmurs that Gimli exchanged with Prince Legolas over their food. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have overindulged with wine, either, but it was of the Dorwinion style and delicious, so he drank until his bladder told him that that might not have been the best of ideas. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to Dáin, and motioned the same sort of thing to Thorin, who nodded at him and then went back to speaking with Thranduil. They could be civil, at least. 

It gave him _great_ pride to note that he only wobbled a bit on the way to find the privy, and only hummed “The Flames of Erebor” a bit loudly as he pulled aside the enclosing tapestry. But it was what he saw next that made him slump to the floor, and made the participants in said thing that he saw look up in mortification. 

“’Adad!” Gimli tore his lips away from that horrible, _perfidious_ Legolas’s and hopped out of his lanky lap, fixing his braids. “Oh, Mahal, say when you’re comin’ in!” 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Legolas groaned, face in his hands. “I…Lord Glóin, I…I’m so sorry…” 

Glóin was going to slaughter him alive as soon as he could find his axe and stopped seeing two of him. Yes, he was. He pushed himself to his feet and steadied himself against the wall. “Out!” he snarled, pointing in the general direction of the tapestry. “Some of us have got to use this thing! Gimli, I’ll be dealin’ with ye later, after I kill this son of an Orc.” 

The feast didn’t last much longer after he did what he had to and returned, but dessert still tasted like ashes. _Smaug’s revenge_ , he thought blearily as he chewed. His son had betrayed him with an Elf, and no amount of wine would fix what it had caused in the first place. 

Bloody Thranduil was only lucky that Glóin had too much of a headache later to find his axe like he’d promised himself, or he would have gone out and killed him, too. 

He did have to admit that it was just as much funny as it was disturbing when he found Gimli and Legolas together the next day, and the day after that, too. At least the expression on Thranduil’s face and the squeak he made upon seeing his son and Glóin’s in an alcove, just before he fainted dead away, made the whole thing almost worth it. 

He still had to wonder if this was just rebellion after all.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Kurdel_ : Khuzdul for "heart of all hearts"  
>  _M'imnu Durin_ : Durin's beard!
> 
> I can be found as godihatethisfreakingcat on Tumblr.


End file.
